


Like my Superstar they Fall

by Echinoderma



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Incest, Mild Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 00:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1622081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echinoderma/pseuds/Echinoderma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had been accidents since the moment they were born. Rose and Dave's last weeks on Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like my Superstar they Fall

they had been accidents since the moment they were born

alpha

 

\---

They sit side by side, his arm resting lightly across her shoulders as her hand crosses the red sea between them to lay on his upper thigh. She watches the locus crowd writhe and chitter at their very presence, two breakthrough superstars that really, no one could have seen coming. Books didn't really catapult one to stardom, these days, the winding weave of diction she created must have ensnared the feeble-minds of the media elite; something so dense and thickly piled that it must have been gold.

The man beside her, well-

It was a surprise he never found himself bowed under the atlas-weight of the irony he carried.

Sheer, gossamer violet wraps around her body, dress and shawl of the same material, lined with black silk and edged with delicate, lavender lace. Strapless. Her hair is pinned back, two obsidian needles holding the bun in place as she crosses her legs at the knees, revealing a strip of ghostly white flesh. A cigarette holder in her left hand, a purple that matches the mock-bruise of her eyeshadow.

Her companion is still, stoic in a wine red tux, the tailored lines holding him like bondage. They wear matching, thick black sunglasses, and from the side she can see the glint of red iris, the nervous thrum of anxiety locked in his gaze. He doesn't like crowds, as good as he is at hiding it. The glimpse turns her lips upward several millimeters.

The cameras are set, the stage lit, the interviewer boisterous and sweating under the line of his collar.

it's their first interview together, peppered with clipped explanations and easy lies about their excitement to be in the spotlight.

They're a matched pair. Rumors of their involvement spread very quickly.

\-------

The sun sets their skin aflame with blisters and scorches their sensitive eyes. The curtains stay drawn, heavy velvet during the day as they prepare for their late-night activity.

They stay at Rose's house, a sprawling complex under the cover of wild land, separated by the populace by acres of thick-trunked pine. Even in the clearest, most vibrant day, the inside of the house is still and cool like mausoleum, marble floors and a quieting layer of dust on the undisturbed. They often congregate in the third living room; small with a roaring fireplace to chase away the chill in the winter, a vintage couch and cedar bookshelves. The carpet is soft, cushioned white to offset the deep violet walls.

The room is far from the basement. That was most important.

 

They slouch together on the cushions, Dave scrawling ideas for his next film, Rose transcribing her thoughts into lofty prose. Time holds fast, a dimming glow beyond the blockades the only signal they have in the chamber to alert them to the beginnings of sunset.

Only the scratch of pen on paper rings in the shaded room, the heat of the summer sun rendering the fireplace useless, even with the drapes sealing them in. Errant doodles on napkins mask complex plans, set ups and locations only they could see. A blink of scarlet eyes serves as inquiry. _Are you sure he knows something?_

She tilts her head to the side, gives him a sidelong glance through her long, white lashes. _I'm certain of it._

 _Tonight, then?_ Says the curl of a finger in a long lock of hair.

The pen is laid down, and the paper placed on the side table.

_Yes._

The sun slides down slow, like honey crawling down the wall; the glow outside turns from white to red-orange-gold. They do nothing but languish in their shared, tempered silence to pass the time.

\----

The second is the same, fleeting touches and lingered looks. They stand with their hair of fishbone and bleached, paper-white hide. This time, their colors are reversed, Rose dipped in ruby satin and Dave locked in a violet suit so dark it may as well have been black.

Twins? Cousins? Lovers, even? The rumors begin to escalate, growing in their extravagance. In hushed tones they gossip; clones or lab experiments shielded from the sun for ages and ages leaving them blind and bloodless like cave fish, or royalty from a far off land come to take the western world by storm. Ethereal and wraith-like and naught but a tight frame held together only by the tension of their skin. Dark red rings both of their eyes, coats their thin lips in contrast to the mess of blue and purple veins that weave under their surface. When Rose signs one of the multitude of pages offered to her, she half-thinks she can see the words through her flesh.

In the shots they look like jackdaws, clad in folded, slickened darkness with lithe, slender limbs and bright, scavenger eyes. Dave preens locks of her hair backstage with his fingers and she shakes her head to set them back in measured disarray.

This time they sit side by side, the warm press of his leg against hers a surprising comfort. The arm around her curls just a bit more, the touches linger for the better part of a second. They're living on borrowed time and the need to be close begins to bleed over into public territory.

 

Later, the headlines read, in flagrant yellow-journalism, " _TWINS AND SINS: INCEST ON THE RED CARPET?"_

"You didn't write this, did you?" Rose chuckles on their way back.

 

\-----

He's been in the basement for ages and smells, like fishgut and stale, salt-laden sweat. His gills flutter with agitation, the fins on his face worn ragged from the trials of his capture. Rose stands statuesque against the light, her angles silhouetted in the candlelight the spills across the floor. Dave slouches against the walls, rolling the hem of his shirt between his fingers. We better turn up the heat, he mutters.

it's a joke, of course. Blades are more of their thing.

Dave reaches into the expanse of darkness that engulfs the better part of the basement; he sees the Seadweller's fins fan out in fear, his limbs a tremble and eyes wide with a most morbid anticipation. Sweat and grime matt the black mass of hair to his skull, and they can see the point of fangs in his mouth as he begs for his life. Wretched, withered sea life crawling in the salt of his own tears on their floor. Dave has seen worse; crying and pissing and vomit that sloughs down the front of their shirts. He's in relatively good condition, all things considered.

 

Rose moves first, a thin stiletto grasped in her fingers, the blade making quick work of the skin on his chest. Violet spills across the floor, along the creases of her palms, and Dave can't help but admire how well the color fits her. The screams register distantly, like listening to gulls across the ocean.

\-------

The next, they link arms, strolling up the red carpet in sinister, sultry darks. They are ice-white where the cloth doesn't cover and the light shines through them, distorted. An endless cycle, their travels up the red carpet, to placate masses with endless empty words. The paranoia never stops, never fails to leave them rabbit-hearted and hyper-alert; trigger-quick reflexes on high.

This time, the shouting has focus; last month's rumors have not gone unnoticed. Dave weaves his finger's with hers, and goads the crowd with a gentle kiss to the back of her hand.

 

There are murmurs about and rumors in the air, raven chatter, and it is the ruddy-faced announcer that has the gall to ask-

"You two- you two aren't related are you?" he stumbles on his words and says it with a half-laugh in his voice and a very real fear in his eyes.

Rose presses fingertips to her lips and smiles with all her teeth. Dave inclines his shades down to fix the interviewer with a Look.

He can't help but smile, too.

"Don't be ridiculous."

 

At the end of the night they kiss for real, lip to lip. For the press, of course.

\-----

Dave is the one who holds him down, rose wielding the kitchen knife with a surgeon's steady hand. the seadweller reveals all under her expert touch

They take turns carrying the body in their journey through the winding, labyrinthine forests of Rose's backyard; Doric cedars rising from the ground and towering, blocking out the weak moonlight. They reach the altar in the dead of night, letting the ravaged corpse lay on the ground; Dave withdraws a pair of small knives and throws one to Rose blade-first. They reopen the old scars on their tongue, letting it flow hot in their mouths before they spit blood on the intricate sigil, drawn in chalk on the wide plain of slate. The void rises to their calling, a wave of roiling, angry oil that sizzles as it touches the warm once-living flesh. It eats the body as they leave the boondock wilds, it bubbles like hot pitch along the ground before fading into silent, eerie shadow.

Rose hates the sound, Dave collapses against the door when they get back, indifferent to the voices, the words of the eldritch dammed. When he shoves three fingers in his mouth and bites down until he feels the skin give way it's nerves, just something he does, nothing important- nothing important. _NOTHING IMPORTANT_ his mind (just  him) echoes back.

He wakes up (wakes up?) on the couch, clean and dressed in underwear and a loose shirt, a clean strip of linen wrapped around his bite.

\-------

Rose sits amidst the glamour of the event as if she weren't elbow deep in a troll's chest cavity two days ago, meticulously put together and scrubbed red-raw hours before. Her eyes gleam with a basilisk stare, the paranoia following a disposal not quite dissipated. Beyond the stage lights there is only a deep, dimmed darkness, occasionally illuminated by photography flashes, or the tiny blip of a cellphone. It reminds her of the seadweller's eyes, dead flat black that reflected their basement light.

Dave feel like his head had detached from his body hours ago, staring into the distance with feverish clarity. His leg jumps restlessly, he digs his nails into the flesh until he feels warm again.

They lead each other down to the limo, drawing strength from the other's presence. She sees a smear of indigo behind Dave's ear and kisses it off when the camera isn't looking.

At home, they collapse into reality, the dreamy starlight of fame leaving their eyes. They haven't cleaned the basement yet, sickened by the smell of salt and sea.

\---------

Later, they wind their spindle limbs around each other to slake the thirst that alcohol doesn't solve. Sex is rare, but useful, in those lulls where Dave has run grooves in his mind from circular thoughts and Rose turns on every light in the house because she can't stand the sight of shadow.

Her fingers taste like the ocean; his like heated, devil's land. Teeth and nails pierce the skin with ease, sweat-salt and copper tang mingling against their tongues. Rose straddles him during their foreplay, uses her weight to hold him to the mattress. The two of them are surprisingly unskilled, they rock together in dissonant rhythms and uncertain strokes across their canvas skin. Dave's breath leaves him in yelps and Rose worries her bottom lip away between her teeth.

 She crawls off of him, serpent-like, when they finish and sighs into the back of his ear.

"Another high-blood is coming to the city tomorrow." He murmurs.

"Dave."

"Fushcia, almost. They'll know even more than the one we just killed."

"Dave." Rose looks forlornly at the ceiling. Exhaustion crushes her body, fragile flight-bones ground into dust.  "It won't be enough. It never is."

He stops.

She's right, she's right.

She's right and he hates it.

\-----

The crowd is wild still, but they know they won't show again. This time their arms snake across their slender frames, mirrored in pose as they each stand with their hand on the other's hip. Paparazzi snarl and bark at their advancing figures, their twin silhouette illuminated by a million split-second flashes. Dave can feel the heat of Rose's skin crawling against his own through two layers of fabric and he can only smirk. They're the wolves in a mongrel pack, trotting up to their familiar stage, lounging against each other.

Their final statement to the world at large; Rose thinks of the witch's face under her nails and feels muscles jump in her neck.

"Perhaps I'll give up the writer's life. We've got much bigger plans being laid."

\-----

They know that she knows, she knows that they know that she knows, they know that she knows that they know that she knows and-

It's their midnight hour, their swan song; Dave and Rose lived and died a life of revolution and left their children to experience the weight of their sacrifice.

 

They go out into the sun for the first time in years, and for a second Rose hopes that they will burn black and shrivel, and that the wind scatters their ashes over dead, dead earth.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> its 2014 and im STILL writing homestuck fanfiction smh


End file.
